


So Strange & Likable

by changbinglish



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: A tragic tale of blue balls sees a happy ending, Alternate Universe - College/University, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings Realization, Frottage, Getting Together, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mind Reading, Minho just might be weird enough to make Seungmin horny, Mutual Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:10:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changbinglish/pseuds/changbinglish
Summary: There’s comfort in making a new friend who feels so familiar. That is, until Minho becomes a nuisance. Not from teasing him about his nasally voice and the blank, far-away expression that is Seungmin’s resting face. Not from constantly bothering him to clarify what the professor is saying with her thick accent which he says is, apparently, indecipherable.No, those are all little things Minho does to make Seungmin’s life just the tiniest bit harder. Things he acts on to worm his way further into his life. Minho is new but nostalgic, a familiar stranger. Seungmin finds himself actuallylooking forwardto feeling whatever he has to offer.It’s strange.
Relationships: Kim Seungmin/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 23
Kudos: 430
Collections: SKZ Fuckfest





	So Strange & Likable

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Person A can read minds, but only when the person who’s mind he’s (unwillingly) reading is experiencing an intense emotion. Person B, as it turns out, has some VERY interesting thoughts."
> 
> Talk to me on Twitter and CC @changbinglish! Title is from the song ["Back in Your Head" by Tegan & Sara](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5HepnmfBkgI)

If Seungmin had told anyone else besides his family, they'd categorize him as an "empath," but he hates that term. And it’s not entirely accurate.

It’s plagued him ever since he learned how to read. The more intensely a person feels something, the more he feels it, too. Combined with spatial proximity to others, he's become accustomed to unwillingly empathizing with all kinds of strangers.

It's not the mind-reading or telepathy of Dr. Charles Xavier, where thoughts are coherent and whole, like fully-formed projections into his mind. It's not him reaching into someone else's psyche. There’s no _effort_ made to invade other people's minds, because trespassing is illegal and he likes to follow the rules.

No, it’s more like being at a bustling marketplace, and every so often a particularly aggressive salesperson will bark in his face, forcing their way into his mind, interrupting his own inner monologue with whatever rage or despair or other manner of baggage they're carrying. No context, of course, unless Seungmin’s feeling nosy enough to really listen. But instead of some persuasive sales pitch, it's a mess of intense nonsensical emotion, overwriting whatever his own feelings are.

Sometimes, people ideate things so strongly that he can sense them inwardly. A mantra, a smell-induced memory, a vivid daydream. But other than that, it’s mostly just vague but deep impressions worming their way into his brain.

He can usually just move away and the thoughts get quieter. He’s read so many books and articles on meditation and mindfulness that he’d like to think he has it under control. That he’s mastered his poker face and nobody needs to know.

There’s a lot to learn about other people. Too much, actually.

It’s difficult when public transit is necessary. When he just wants to enjoy a nice movie at the cinema but the crowd in the next theater is watching the opposite genre. When he’s accidentally thrust into the referee position in a lovers’ quarrel between strangers. And it's especially unbearable during his first few months of university in the States, when he feels like he's drowning in a sickening stew of his fellow students’ nerves, their anxiety with the weight of adulthood and independence, their homesickness, the crushing and collective fear of being new.

Seungmin’s always been mature and reasonable, so he _would_ be faring well. Without this curse, gift, whatever it is, he’d be fine handling his own shit. He just wants to study and graduate with honors, but the depression of his newly-divorced Biology professor is so potent that he drops the class as soon as he walks out of the lecture hall on the first day, trashing the syllabus. It doesn’t help that it’s at least sixty other students crammed into one room, a majority of them fellow freshmen with God-knows-what going on in their heads. The science credit just isn’t worth it right now.

So he replaces it with an elective this semester, and the class size is only twelve. ENGL 1025: Asian-American Literature is taught by a frail, even-tempered Chinese woman. It’s at 8 AM, which Seungmin had been told would be Hell, but it’s really nothing compared to the feeling that his ex-wife, who wasn’t his, was the last joy tethering him to a worthwhile existence.

His classmates are almost all international students as well, from Hong Kong and Indonesia and the Philippines and Taiwan. There’s one white dude who’s a little _too_ enthusiastic about Japanese culture and the sound of his own voice. And it’s always coldest in the morning, both inside and out. But it’s much more tolerable compared to before.

It’s a lot of reading, obviously, and the class discussions are either complete silence or reasonably engaging. Seungmin sits at the front, trying not to type too loud on his laptop, unlike the shameless clacking that fills the room as accompaniment to air conditioner buzzing. The only other Korean in his class is Minho, who always sits near him, but never at the same desk twice in the same week.

According to his first day introduction, he’s a third-year performing arts major with a concentration in dance. And, objectively, he’s the best-looking person in the class. A distraction in this sacred learning environment, but not unwelcome. Seungmin almost dedicates a bullet point in his notes to how symmetrical his face is. Minho’s “fun fact” is that he’s good at communicating with animals. He’s odd, but Seungmin gets along with him just fine. At first.

At week two, when their professor calls for a fifteen-minute break, the class disperses to the bathroom or the vending machine or outside the building to smoke. Seungmin stays in class to find .PDFs of the next few readings online, and Minho, who is sitting to his left today, leans over.

“Seungmin-ah. What do you miss most about home?”

He stops typing, taken aback by how this, probably the sixth thing Minho has ever said to him, is wildly personal. Is this how people talk in college? Or is this how you talk to the person whose childhood most closely resembles your own?

He can only say, very intelligently, “Uh. My family, I guess?”

Minho leans back in his seat, unsatisfied. “Yeah, but that’s obvious. I miss the pizza. It’s so weird and greasy here.”

Nodding, Seungmin opens his mouth to agree and add his own thoughts. Something about how the cleanest bus here is still grosser than the dirtiest bus in Seoul.

But Minho looks him in the eye and says, “Most of the guys here aren’t that cute, either. They don’t take care of their skin. Not like you.”

It makes Seungmin’s face hot, even if there’s no real intent or ulterior motive in what Minho’s saying. Probably. “ _Not like you?_ ” Is that in reference to him being cute or to him giving a shit about skin care? Minho’s tone isn’t flirtatious but the content of his words are, he says them like he’s commenting on the weather. Maybe this kind of straightforwardness is just one of his… charms?

As he scrambles for words, Minho nods at Seungmin’s laptop screen, and just as easily as discussing the weather, changes the subject.

“I can send you all the readings if you want. I’m actually taking this class because one of my friends already took it and told me how easy it was, I can get the files from him.”

“Oh, uh. Yeah, that’d be great. Thank you.”

Then Minho smiles at him for the first time, lips curling at the end in a way that suggests mischief. But there’s also something endearing about it, like a contented cat. And he realizes that he agrees with Minho. He agrees that American boys are neither cute nor cognizant of the existence of hydrating toners.

Not like Minho.

When class ends, they exchange numbers, purely for academic reasons, Seungmin tells himself. The first thing Minho texts him is a selfie with two wide-eyed kittens, then a link to a dense anthology and the John Okada novel they need to finish in three weeks.

There’s comfort in making a new friend who feels so familiar. That is, until Minho becomes a nuisance. Not from teasing him about his nasally voice and the blank, far-away expression that is Seungmin’s resting face. Not from constantly bothering him to clarify what the professor is saying with her thick accent which he says is, apparently, indecipherable.

No, those are all little things Minho does to make Seungmin’s life just the tiniest bit harder. Things he acts on to worm his way further into his life. Minho is new but nostalgic, a familiar stranger. Seungmin finds himself actually _looking forward_ to feeling whatever he has to offer.

It’s strange.

* * *

A month-and-a-half into the semester, Minho claps his hand on Seungmin’s shoulder and extends an invitation after class.

“Let’s go get barbecue. There’s only one place in town that has good meat and you need to know about it.”

Seungmin opens his mouth to say something, but Minho goes on. “My treat. Plus I heard your tummy growl in the middle of the lecture. So I _know_ you’re hungry.”

They take a bus across campus, shoulder-to-shoulder and bundled up in their layered sweaters, to a restaurant he would have otherwise ignored. The wallpaper is peeling and the “OPEN” sign refuses to stay lit, but it’s kept clean enough on the inside. It’s a Monday morning so they’re the only ones there, apart from a disaffected old man who may or may not be part of the staff grumbling at a table by himself. The ahjumma who seats them and takes their order knows Minho by name, and she looks absolutely delighted that he’s brought a new friend.

“He’s so handsome just like you! If you ever need a job while you’re here, Seungmin, just come talk to me.” She coos at him in Korean and her smile chases away the windchill, warms him from the inside as he smiles back and bows his head gratefully. Her contagious elation fizzles out when she walks back to the kitchen.

Once she’s out of earshot, Seungmin still lowers his voice to say, “she reminds me of my aunt.”

Minho nods while rubbing his hands together, still feeling like his fingers are frosted over. “Right? I worked here the last two summers. I think she’s like, the guardian angel of every Asian kid here.”

As they grill meat and blow on scalding spoonfuls of soup, Minho talks about his plans after graduating, moving to the west coast to work for the studios there. He’s already been talking with some production companies who need dancers and choreographers. Eventually he’d like to teach workshops and become an instructor at a bigger studio. If that doesn’t work out, he’ll open a cat cafe.

It sounds nice. Sounds like he’s got it figured out. There’s a potent silence interrupted only by the click of metal chopsticks, so Seungmin clears his throat.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what my plans are?”

Minho shrugs. “Only if you want me to. I remember when I first came here and people would always ask me about my future. Like, every day. I’d freak out and pretend to know less English so I wouldn’t have to answer.”

Seungmin laughs at the mental image of a slightly younger Minho, one who hasn’t yet grown into the confident, four-dimensional man across from him. He wonders if, a few years from now, he’ll reach the same level of put-together.

Then he considers himself. Seungmin’s nature is to plan everything in painstaking detail, but the road ahead of him, in his own mind, remains largely unpaved.

“I was thinking of going back to Korea to teach English, or stay here and teach it. Depends on how much I like it.”

Minho nods. “You’ll do well. You’re really good at it.”

His first instinct is to deflect the compliment, almost pushed to fruition by the rapid heating of his cheeks. But maybe it’s just from the steaming food.

“Thanks.”

Then, with more difficulty than discussing the weather, Seungmin changes the subject.

“Can I watch you dance sometime?”

And in both of their chests, the same feeling blooms: a reaction of surprised delight. Minho nods, mouth full and still chewing. He takes out his phone and texts Seungmin a link to a YouTube channel, each thumbnail shows different dancers in the same studio.

“Our choreographers upload clips of us here. I’m in the three most recent ones and a few more from last year.”

Seungmin taps on one of them and watches Minho move to a remix of a hip-hop song he’s heard through the walls at his dorm. In the video, other dance students watch him from the background, nodding and half-mirroring the choreo. There’s one part where his body roll, sensual and precise, swings effortlessly into an intense spin-kick, and his peers hype him up with emphatic “AY”s and gestures that Seungmin knows can only be pulled off by the naturally cool.

The clip ends with Minho smiling, playful but modest.

Seungmin _wants_ to say something that Minho probably hasn’t heard a million times before. But originality escapes him. 

“Wow. You’re really good.”

Minho’s mouth is full so he just nods and hums in appreciation. He swallows and meets Seungmin’s eyes.

“We have our revue coming up, the performing arts department does it every semester. If you’re willing to sit through two-and-a-half hours of monologues and interpretive dance, you can come watch me.

Seungmin thinks about it. He does enjoy a good stage show, and he’s been meaning to participate in more school stuff outside of class. He should be doing more college things with cool college people. Become well-rounded, find his own cool.

“That sounds nice. I’ll definitely come.”

And Minho nods. Behind his sip of cider, Seungmin can see the hidden upturn of his lip.

* * *

Soon enough, Seungmin picks up some more peculiar waves of thought from Minho.

Sometimes Minho will zone out and his head will play this nonsensical song to the tune of “twinkle twinkle little star,” except each line is changed to “Soonie, Doongie, Dori, meow.” But it’s loud enough that Seungmin hears it, and then it’s all he hears for the rest of the day. He later learns that those are the names of his cats.

Minho’s weird. He’s annoying. But Seungmin realizes there’s another feeling he picks up from sitting next to or in front of or behind his hyung. One he hadn’t noticed because he actively feels it, too.

Fondness.

Little specks and dustings of warmth in every tease and light shove when they chat during breaks, or when they walk together after class when the sun’s too bright but the air threatens to freeze dry their skin. Minho always texts him reminders to wear a scarf, along with the strangest choice of emojis, as if Seungmin doesn’t always have weather alerts on his phone. Now he just has alerts of the most personalized custom variety. Double taps all of the selfies with weird filters Minho posts on Instagram.

It’s like this: Seungmin proofreads Minho’s short essays and Minho tells him which buildings on campus have decent or shitty wi-fi. Seungmin’s Instagram explore page has become inundated with cats and other animals because he looks for videos to send Minho, who flips the tag of his shirt back in whenever it’s sticking out. Share their findings in grappling with American culture, uncover more common ground to walk on when there already exists a twisting, labyrinthine path between them, one they know well and can somehow perfectly navigate each time.

Seungmin can feel the weirdness seeping into him, too, in the way he’s comfortable saying whatever non-sequitur suddenly enters his mind at any moment. A mutual enabling of eccentricity. They dote on each other, annoy each other into caring deeply and feeling so unexpectedly yet naturally fond.

This is a problem because Seungmin doesn’t _get_ crushes. He gets good grades and he gets a decent amount of sleep. He never thought he’d have to worry about frivolous things like romance, because he’s felt it secondhand so many times against his will, felt all the ways that it can go wrong, all the ways it can spoil and sour and become rotten. The last time he pined after someone was in middle school, and it doesn’t count because it was after a girl out of what seemed like, at the time, obligation.

He knows what it feels like, looks like, but only for _other_ people. But that fluttering heartache has never been _his_ to experience firsthand. And he’s never seen the appeal. He’s always thought it was more trouble than it was worth.

And even if Seungmin were to have a type, Minho sure as Hell wouldn’t fit. On the surface, he’s already out of Seungmin’s league. Like, astronomically so. His face is impeccably sculpted and Seungmin can’t maintain eye contact with him for too long before he feels his ears and neck start to burn. He simply isn’t used to the attention of someone as attractive as Minho. It’s kind of exciting, as much as he’s hesitant to let this be an actual crush.

But there’s one day after midterms that Minho comes in extremely exhausted, he walks in looking bitter and clutching a huge cup of coffee from the student café. Fatigue is a strange case because of the _way_ Seungmin inherits it. It’s only through someone actively acknowledging how tired they are, so it’s almost always tiredness mixed with desperation or dread. A less-than-savory feelings blend.

“I’m battling a hangover,” Minho whispers to him.

He looks over at Minho. Seungmin has to turn around in his seat because he’s currently in the desk southwest of him, and sure enough, Minho’s eyes are almost screwed shut with his head hung low, hands shoved fitfully into his hoodie pocket. Hair cutely mussed up after what was surely a hands-thrown-up-in-exasperation attempt at styling it before he got to class. The wind was gonna fuck it up anyway.

He’s exhausted. And frustrated. Seungmin can pick these out in the swirling stew of emotion that’s filling him up, too. But something else overpowers these, creates a combination of disgruntled passion that Seungmin’s picked up in locker rooms and when he passes by a certain dorm room on a Friday night.

Minho’s extremely, _unbelievably_ fucking horny.

Seungmin’s had more than his fair share of inconvenient boners. But the thing is, a lot of the time, they aren’t really _his_. Especially during the pubescent years, it was cruel to have to devise twenty different ways to cover up every fucking hour. He feels panic start to boil in his belly as he checks the time on his computer screen, it’s only 8:23 on a Monday morning and there’s an uninvited hard-on forming fast between his legs.

It’s weird, because it’s not just arousal on its own. He’s also feeling… unfulfilled? Disappointed? Somehow, in a way that’s directly related to lust. It manifests as a highly distracting tingle in his thighs.

Seungmin flushes at the realization that there’s a story behind Minho being simultaneously turned on and off. And he doesn’t want to be curious about it, but he definitely is. He feels they’ve reached a level of familiarity that he can ask, trying to muster a casual-enough tone, “partied too hard?”

Minho just answers with a flat “mm.” And Seungmin gets it: _I’ll tell you later_.

The rest of class passes by with Seungmin tensing his body and clenching his fists in an effort to will himself back to flaccidity. Exhausts his library of breathing exercises. In between that and him trying to pay attention to the lecture, he catches some words that are repeating loudly in Minho’s head.

_Your mouth feels so good. Mouth, so good._

Shit. The worst part is, Seungmin still likes him even when he’s like this. Makes him want to do something bold and stupid, makes him want to be the inverse of himself and find out what it tastes like.

What a nuisance Minho has become.

When class lets out, Seungmin regrets how little he retained because of certain distractions. The rest of the room packs up and leaves, but he turns to find that Minho’s nose is scrunched up while he has one hand on his closed notebook and another buried in his bag, like he’s stuck in a freeze-frame shot.

“You could’ve skipped. I would’ve sent you notes. I already do anyway.”

Minho groans so loudly it rings against the walls of the now empty room. “I hate missing class. And if I’d stayed home I would’ve just wallowed pathetically.”

Seungmin does and doesn’t want to ask. Then, once again, Minho lures him in with the promise of Korean food.

“I have a bunch of leftover rice at home because I made too much. I’m gonna kimchi fry it. Help me finish it?” He’s pouting ever so slightly and Seungmin can smell the coffee in his words, complete with the hazelnut creamer. Neither of them have class again until 3, how can he say no to that?

Minho’s apartment is just a ten-minute walk from the lecture hall. He tells Seungmin that he’d gone to a friend’s house show last night.

“This guy from out of town kept talking to me in between songs. He was cute and at one point he had his arm around me like this.”

He drapes an arm around Seungmin’s shoulder and they walk like that for the rest of the way.

“But he was nice and not creepy about it. I think. My friend made this punch and insisted on us trying it, and it was deceptively strong.”

Seungmin gives an “mm” in false understanding as they stop in front of Minho’s apartment and he unlocks the door. It’s simultaneously better and worse than the dorms Seungmin lives in, because it’s homier but older, and with the circulating heat coming to relieve their chilled skin, he can smell very faintly the burning dust in the vents. The living room has huge windows and all the blinds are halfway open, permitting light in little bars across the room.

Minho hangs his lanyard on a hook on the wall labeled with his name. They take off their shoes in unison and Seungmin carefully sits his bag against the wall next to where Minho had heavily thrown his. There are two other currently unoccupied hooks, one for “Momo” and another for “Mina.”

Socked feet padding across the wood floor, Minho gestures for Seungmin to sit on the couch while he checks the tupperware of rice in the fridge. “We came back here and I really thought something was gonna happen.”

The container clatters on the counter and Minho continues. “In the middle of us making out, his phone rang but he ignored it. Then it rang again, and it started dinging like crazy and he was getting like a hundred texts.” 

Seungmin watches him take out a pan and set it on the stove, he tries to offer help with cooking but Minho stands firm on finishing the story. “We stopped and he looked at his phone and he suddenly went like, ‘SHIT!’ and just fucking ran out apologizing, saying there was an emergency he had to deal with.” Irritation tinges his voice, adding dynamics as he relays the story and it’s cute. “He tripped on the rug on the way out. It would’ve been funny if the situation was different.”

He wonders if that kind of thing happens a lot. Seungmin probably only knows a fraction of what it feels like, getting all hot and worked up for absolutely no payoff, and he can guess what Minho did next. Either pass out with a deep-set frown, or jack off to zero satisfaction, and _then_ pass out. Seungmin feels Minho’s waves of annoyance at the recollection prickle in his head.

“I hope I’m not oversharing. Just wanted to explain why I’m a walking headache right now.”

“No, it’s fine. Sucks that he did that to you.” He wants to add something pathetic like, _I wouldn’t just leave you_ , or _if it were me I’d at least leave a rain check_ , or _you’re way too hot to just walk out on like that._

Seungmin thinks he shouldn’t be so into the idea of hooking up with a guy after hearing about his blue balls misfortune from the night before. Especially if it’s going to be his first time, it should _not_ be with Minho, who undoubtedly has an impressive number of notches in his belt.

He shouldn’t feel this way, but he does. Minho’s made it that way. Still feeling needy.

Suddenly he hears him curse from the kitchen, first in Korean and then in English, before retracting his head from the depths of the fridge. A surge of frustration lashes outward, but only shows as knit brows and a pointed pout.

“We’re out of kimchi. Is it cool if we just get food delivered? I’ll cover it.”

He knows Minho won't let him pay, not even the tip. “Yeah, of course.”

Minho strides over to sit in the chair perpendicular to the couch, dropping down hard like he weighs three tons. He softens into something else just at the sight of Seungmin sitting in his home, like he’s instantaneously forgotten all his woes up to this moment.

“I like talking to you, Seungmin. You listen really well. I think my migraine’s gone because of you.”

There it is again: a swell of shared fondness, underlined by lingering arousal, too warm and coy and absolutely inappropriate. Seungmin knows his cheeks are visibly hot and there’s nothing he can do to hide it. All that’s left is honesty, warm and cold truth.

“I like listening to you. You say some interesting things.”

Looking away, he can see in his mind's eye, Minho’s staring at his lips, thinking very deeply about them.

“Seungmin, I think maybe you’re into me. Even after I told you all that?” Again, infuriatingly again, it’s just discussing the weather with him.

He swallows, and suddenly making eye contact with Minho becomes impossible, because meeting his eyes feels like he’s being injected with heat. The room feels smaller when Minho raises up to slink into the spot next to him on the couch.

Seungmin’s shoulders shrink inward. “I... I think I. Might be.” And Minho’s reaction is that inescapable smile, almost evil, but the laugh that comes with it is light, like a cloud.

“You are so cute. I think I might like you too.” He licks his lips and it makes Seungmin feel like he’s slowly becoming liquid. “Way more than that other dude.”

He can feel the air vibrate between them, Minho’s so close now and his want is loud, like he’s yelling it on the inside.

It echoes in both their heads: _touch me, touch me, wanna touch you_.

Minho’s rapidly closing the space between them, both seen and unseen. “Do you wanna kiss about it?”

And it’s in the open, non-committal tone that could still be interpreted as a joke. But Seungmin knows too much, feels too much, for it to be anything other than completely sincere. Caught in his orbit, too sensual, too weird, Seungmin closes his eyes and presses his lips to Minho’s.

For once, not thinking. Just feeling.

Minho’s lips are soft and Seungmin is caught between this being his first kiss with a guy but very much _not_ the first for Minho. He feels his eyelids twitch, nose pressed to cheek, suppressing the air between them, and everything is warm.

Somehow, Seungmin thinks he knows what to do. Maybe it’s Minho’s expertise rubbing off on him and he can trick both of them into thinking he’s anything other than a bumbling, daisy-fresh nerd boy.

Thumb and forefinger on the chin, tilt of the head and press their lips together. Something they both want and give in to.

It works, he figures, because Minho kisses back with what he feels is excitement and relief. Where Seungmin is _oh my God this is happening_ , Minho is _thank God this is happening._

With newfound boldness Seungmin deepens the kiss, puts a steady hand on Minho’s shoulder before it slips up to hold the back of his neck while he laps eagerly into his mouth. Coffee tastes new and strange on the tongue of another man, but that’s the way it should be, Seungmin figures. Minho’s brand of strange is a flavor he wants very much.

The slatted beams of light move over the planes of Minho’s face, they catch in his eyes and lashes, cast them in delicate brown. Seungmin pulls away just an inch to look at him, right as Minho’s whispering in unison with the thoughts that Seungmin can hear: _I want you._

Seungmin swallows and it sounds just as loud to him. “Will your roommates be here—“

“No. And even if they do, we can be quiet right?” Minho teases through quirked lips against his jaw. His hand takes Seungmin’s and strokes his thumb against his palm, pulls him off the couch and to the hall and meal delivery is pushed to the backburner.

He barely has time to think for himself because impatience sparks between them, shared and spilling over and over. The door to Minho’s bedroom is barreled open followed immediately by him pulling their bodies together again. It’s a clumsy spinning waltz of grabbing and kissing and sucking at lips, at the already-bruising spots of skin, red and exposed, until legs hit the edge of the bed and Minho takes Seungmin down with him.

The fall onto the mattress makes them break apart momentarily, and Seungmin hurries to finally shed his thick coat before latching onto Minho again, who’s enveloped below him. Nerves and bravery fight to control his hand as he slowly rucks the hem of Minho’s pullover up his body. Seungmin’s fingers press into the lines of his abs and makes Minho gasp and arch subtly. He returns the contact in kind with a hand at the small of Seungmin’s back, pulling, pulling at his shirt and splaying smooth up his spine.

They shiver not from the cold now, but from each other. Like the soy milk poured into the black of his coffee, excitement clouds and swells in their heads, tingling from the touch and filling the space in every direction, changing the colors behind their eyelids. Nothing’s ever felt so intense to Seungmin, his own desire compounded and magnified in someone else’s. It’s dizzying.

He doesn’t even register the motions to take each other’s clothes off, but the next moment they’re both half-naked and Minho’s licking his lips while giving teasing pinches to Seungmin’s nipples. He winces at the sensation, they had already been hard and sensitive but Minho just laughs, drinks in Seungmin in all his inexperience.

It makes mischief spike in Seungmin, he wants to get back at him so he leads quick kisses down Minho’s chest until he swirls a tongue around one of his nipples, then the other, all the while Minho’s hips buck upward in search of anything to rut against. Seungmin’s hands glide down to squeeze at his sides to see if he’s ticklish. He’s answered by a sound that’s half moan and half giggle, which he swallows up in more open-mouthed kisses, teeth turning his bottom lip red and swollen.

His fingers find the waistband of Minho’s sweats, and in tugging at them he finds there’s another layer of cloth to conquer. Minho takes it upon himself to kick off his pants but keep his thermals on, leaving Seungmin staring at how the material hugs his thighs and the bulge of his hard cock underneath.

Long underwear shouldn’t look as good as it does on him. Seungmin, mesmerized, traces his fingers up Minho’s thigh and presses a palm against his cock. He can feel Minho begging for friction, in tiny whines and huffs, and who is he to deny him after everything that’s happened?

Seungmin’s just replicating whatever he thinks feels good, grabbing the clothed outline of Minho’s cock and jerking slow and firm. The next feeling erupts in them, relief and pleasure wrapped up in long-awaited touches. Watching Minho grind almost desperately against his hand makes Seungmin’s cock twitch and he’s aching to be touched the same way.

He really needs this. They both do.

Minho’s voice comes out breathy and blurred. “Fuck, you’re so much better than that shithead who led me on. You wanna pick up where he left off?”

Seungmin gulps. “I want to. I just. Don’t know how.”

With a fond hand cupped on Seungmin’s jaw, Minho strokes his bottom lip with his thumb. “You can fuck my thighs, if you want.”

The arousal’s too contagious for Seungmin to do anything other than blurt out an over-eager “yes.” There’s just no getting used to his directness, and for a moment Seungmin wonders if Minho has a similar ability to him, but to unearth someone’s base desire. His half-lidded gaze draws him closer and they’re kissing again, fingers threading through Seungmin’s hair.

Minho breaks away and looks at him with pretend severity. “We have to get fully nude and very naked for this.”

Seungmin sucks in his lips to keep a laugh in. “Yeah, okay. I knew _that_ part.”

So they do. A few seconds of awkward maneuvering and shoving off underwear and they’re back to making out, half expertise and half blind shots in the dark with intrepid touches to every inch of skin. Seungmin feels Minho unhook an arm from his neck to grasp blindly at his side table, where the bottle of lube has already been out and ready to use. 

Opening it with one hand, Minho adjusts his body on the bed, bringing in his knees so he can squeeze the liquid right onto the insides of his thighs. Then he spreads his legs so the glistening skin is fully presented to Seungmin.

“Rub it in for me, baby.”

He swallows and starts with his hands on Minho’s knees, moving upward to generously massage the lube over his thighs, watching the dip of his skin when he presses his thumbs in a little harder. Lets the heat of meeting skin warm it up nicely.

Minho groans and catches his lower lip between his teeth. He squeezes some more lube into his hand and props himself up on an elbow so he can reach for Seungmin’s cock and coat it until it’s slick and Seungmin thinks his hand looks fucking incredible around him, wet fingers teasing the head on the upstroke.

Hands on each other, it feels like a harmony between disjointed pieces, a newly-discovered chord that works only in their closeness. 

His skin seems amply saturated, or they’re both so horny that time accelerates around them, so Minho twists his legs to the side so they almost touch his chest, bringing them together tight. He’s on display for Seungmin, who kneels over him nervous and electric. Squeezes and kneads at his ass as he admires it with glazed eyes.

Seungmin holds Minho’s closed legs in a grip that he thinks is firm at first, but once his cock is slipping through them, his nails dig into the flesh hard. It’s wet and tight and smooth and _perfect_ , he feels a wave of a gasp travel his body top-down.

Staring at the head of Seungmin’s cock peeking between his thighs, Minho’s mouth hangs open and crooks into a smile. Their eyes meet and Seungmin almost freezes, but he has to chase more friction, he starts thrusting carefully, holding Minho in place and simultaneously using him as an anchor.

He looks immaculate even like this, twisted and folded below him, and he sounds even better than Seungmin could have imagined. His voice is huskier, dustier with want now rumbling from his chest. Some of his strokes brush against his sac and it makes Minho suck in his bottom lip while he lazily fists at his own cock.

What Minho feels, Seungmin feels. A sort of gratification and wash of bliss that he’s finally being touched and touching another beautiful naked boy in the warmth of his room and it’s not even noon yet. And it’s not the badly-lit, all-consuming sex Seungmin’s watched in porn, but maybe he can work up to that level, in whichever way it exists in the real world.

Minho, smug and seasoned, holds onto one of Seungmin’s hands where it grips his hip hard. “You like me like this, baby? Laid out for you, using my thighs to get off?”

“Hyung,” he breathes. “It’s so good. It feels so good.” Something in a corner of his mind is telling him that fucking Minho is a game of half confidence and half honesty. The slick sounds of him fucking into the soft skin of his thighs are almost too much, too much evidence of their depravity, but how can something be wrong if it feels this good? Minho doesn’t leave room for shame. Seungmin bucks his hips faster and finds himself chasing those sounds, living for the repeated impact of skin and sensual exhales.

“You’re so hot, Seungmin. So good for me.”

And God, he wants to be good for him. Needs to be. He knows Minho’s not judging him for the way he fucks, all juvenile and barely coordinated, speeding up with every iota of filthy encouragement from his lips. He can feel the proof in the pleasure, that Minho loves this, and they really are being so good for each other.

Minho’s moaning beautifully even if it’is just from his own hand. Seungmin picks up the hint that he gets off on helping someone else get off. He wants so badly to make Minho come but he knows he’ll have to do more than this. They’ll have to change their position, maybe he can suck him off, or even finger him, or…

With a little gasp, Minho clenches his thighs even harder, heightening the pressure and deepening the lines of his muscles with little tremors. _Shit_ , the way he clenches around Seungmin makes his mind feel like it’s bending, and he knows he’s about to come. Doesn’t even have time to be embarrassed about it.

“Fuck, Minho I’m gonna—”

“Wait.”

Minho gives one last squeeze of his thighs before they release his straining cock, and he’s quick to take hold of both of them into his hand and pump furiously. Seungmin swallows hard and whines harder at the change, but coming on Minho’s abs is too much of a priority to complain.

Here, between Minho’s legs and in his hand, he can feel the desire mounting, shooting up and folding in on itself for both of them. Seungmin grinds against his cock and fucks into his hand, then comes between Minho’s fingers with a harsh whisper of his name.

It lands white and hot on Minho’s stomach, and it really is something else watching his muscles ripple under his release.

Breathing hard, Seungmin feels his whole body buckle from trying to still himself after orgasm. His jaw is slack and his vision is almost blurred before Minho comes into focus, he’s still jacking both of them with shallow pants. The quick rise and fall of his chest are set to a euphoric rhythm, he moans Seungmin’s name with every other flick of his wrist.

Seungmin lets out an unflattering whimper-grunt from the overstimulation, when Minho lets go of him and Seungmin takes over to finish him off. Minho’s head cranes back into the pillow while Seungmin half lays on top of him, strokes his shining pink cock with his lips glued to his neck until he’s arching up and coming in long streaks.

Two consecutive orgasms, one his own and one inherited, and Seungmin feels like he can conquer anything and like he needs a four-hour nap. A next-level kind of satisfaction settles over them, Seungmin’s face buried in Minho’s neck as he tries to avoid getting their come anywhere else.

“Fuck,” Minho exhales and he’s blindly grasping again at his side table for an excessive amount of tissues to wipe them off. After he discards them Seungmin’s the one who takes initiative, presses a gentle kiss on his mouth, melting sweetness, how first kisses should be.

“Seungmin,” he pulls away to look him in the eye. “My birthday’s next week. Do you wanna eat somewhere nice and have our first time again afterwards.”

He’s not sure why, but the proposition makes his face stupidly red as he nods. He’s not sure what it means when they’re eating Chinese food from plastic containers that come in grease-spotted brown bags, sitting on Minho’s couch again, wearing each other’s sweaters and watching videos of cats. All he knows is that Minho is an expert in feeling comfortable after what he hopes was a good fuck, even if it wasn’t a fuck exactly. They both came so it counts, right?

It’s Minho’s certainty and casual fondness overlapping Seungmin’s invisible anxiety, his silent desperation to be validated in a job well done, but obviously there are no gold stars for sex. Maybe the feeling of Minho clinging to his arm, almost making him late for class, is the next best thing.

He’s a little reassured when Minho’s usual teasing is now accompanied by warm honey-sweet adoration, gooey and cloying and only sensed by the two of them. When they sneak in little kisses when “nobody’s looking” and he never brings up other boys or romantic mishaps in conversation. Study dates with an obvious and deliberate lack of studying, because you would have to _try_ to fail the final for ENGL 1025. On Minho's birthday, they suck each other off and Seungmin only gags once. A great go-again at their first time.

It emboldens him, makes him just as strange and slowly more confident, gives him the conviction to buy a single rose from the grocery store before he sits in the audience of the performing arts revue. Because a bouquet is overkill, and tucked into the plastic wrapped around the rose are little cat stickers.

After the show, Minho casually thanks him for the rose, saying that it looks delicious and will make a great snack for later. Seungmin knows his language now, knows that they share pride and love in each other. He knows it especially well after they drop by a bar to say hi to one of Minho’s American friends who works there, and they try some in-progress cocktail special ideas that they’ve been throwing around. A sip of each, and Seungmin concludes that two of them are nasty and one is just okay. It’s not nearly enough alcohol for either of them to become reckless, maybe just a few degrees warmer and have even fewer inches between their bodies.

“This is Seungmin,” Minho begins to introduce him, as he often does, but this time he leans in and whispers quickly to Seungmin in Korean, “hey, do you want to be my real-life boyfriend? So I can tell him you are without it being a lie.”

Later that night, Seungmin will be inside him, chest pressed to Minho’s back, absolutely overwhelmed by tightness and frantic rhythm and unspoken _love you, love you, love you_.

Here, right now, Seungmin can feel Minho’s pulse quicken, less with hope and more with perfect knowledge of what his answer will be.

He says, like he's discussing the weather, “Yeah, I’ll be your real-life boyfriend.”


End file.
